


A Seat in Fine Condition

by quicksparrows



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/M, Tailoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 03:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3794935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quicksparrows/pseuds/quicksparrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frederick has a tear in his trousers and Cherche has nimble fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Seat in Fine Condition

“Cherche?”

                Frederick lingers by the door, the polished toes of his shoes scarcely brushing the threshold. (He would never enter uninvited, after all.) Through the fine mesh of the tent’s doorway he can see her, seated on a cushion and brushing her long hair out, eyes closed as if in meditation.

                “Come in,” she says, so Frederick does. “What can I do for you, Sir Frederick?”

                There’s a great deal of fondness in the way she says his name, but Frederick pays it little mind – there are other matters at hand, after all.

                “I seem to have ripped my trousers,” he says.

                Cherche opens her eyes.

                “I thought you knew how to sew,” she replies.

                “I do know how to make rudimentary repairs,” he says, and then admits: “But I fear my handiwork is not nearly as skilled as yours, and we are some days away from a proper tailor. It would be amiss of me to ride with my seat open.”

                “Is a torn seat beyond a rudimentary repair?” Cherche says. There’s a little bit of amusement on her voice, and Frederick feels the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Maybe it’s the timbre of her voice, or how he’s realized somewhat belatedly that she is in a state of undress. Her tunic is open, her leggings cast across the cot.

                “I trust an expert with it more,” he says. If she doesn’t draw attention to her most natural state, then he will pretend he hasn’t seen, either.

                “Such flattery!” she says. She holds out a hand, reaching up to him.

                The prickle at the back of his neck becomes a flush around his ears.

                “I’m afraid I am wearing them,” he admits.

                Cherche laughs, musical and lovely.

                “Then give them here just the same,” she says.

                It would be greatly inappropriate, Frederick thinks, to remove his trousers so brazenly in front of a lady, but he cannot chance another walk across camp with his seat torn clean open. (The embarrassment would likely do him in.) And, after all, if she is trouserless, then at least he is keeping her company.

                His fingers move to his fly, but Cherche reaches to touch his wrist. He is momentarily intrigued by how close her hand is to his beltline, but then she gives him a turn-around gesture.

                “I need to see the damage first,” Cherche says. She does not even try to sound innocent about it, though even if she did, her smile would give her away.

                Frederick feels a smile of his own tugging at his lips.

                “You’re enjoying this more than I thought you would,” he says.

                “Guilty as charged.”

                Frederick turns slowly, and he feels a small bit of pride at her little noise of approval.

                “No wonder you’re flushed,” Cherche says, which only reddens him further. “You must have been fighting hard to tear such fine trousers.”

                He feels a finger trace the rip, which he has never felt a tailor do before. Somehow, he doesn’t have complaints now, even if he imagines it isn’t terribly professional – Cherche’s hand practically roves, _gropes._ His heart thumps in his chest like a caged animal.

                “It was to protect your good self, lady,” Frederick replies. “I overextended myself in the saddle, reaching to block a Risen’s axe.”

                Cherche makes a noise something like a purr, and with a hand on his hip she directs him to turn around again. Looking down at her, Frederick decides he is a very fortunate man. She looks up at him through her lashes, which are the same salmon-flesh colour as her long hair. That isn’t a terribly romantic description, of course, but it’s perhaps the only description that could suit Cherche: a certain coldness, a certain vividness, and hewn flesh.

                She is all the loveliness of battle personified, enough even to forget its terribleness.

                “Well, I suppose repairing your trousers is an act of gratitude, then,” Cherche replies. She rises to her knees, and she comfortably reaches for his fly. Frederick hardly protests when she unbuttons him and then pulls his fine wool trousers down, leaving him in just his braes with a noticeable bulge.

                “Dear husband,” she says, smooth and catlike, looking up at him through her eyelashes again. Her laugh is sweet, and Frederick’s heart flutters. “You’re so good to me. Keeping my head from being split open, indulging my favourite hobby.”

                “Whatever pleases you, pleases me,” he says, and he adds, almost conspiratorially: “I know how you love to keep my seat in such fine condition.”

                And so she does. 


End file.
